PART 2: Maya Torres shoved the phone deeper into her apron pocket and forced her feet to move, though every step felt like walking through water. The message burned inside her pocket as if the screen were still glowing against her hip. You think you can hide from me? You think I won’t find you? She had read those words from the same man too many times, in too many places, with too many numbers she blocked only for new ones to appear. Derek Voss had made a career out of finding her fear and calling it love.

The restaurant was called La Paloma, a family-owned Mexican place on the south side of Chicago, wedged between a laundromat and a pawn shop with a flickering neon sign. On normal days, it felt warm and safe, full of salsa music, grilled onions, and regular customers who knew the lunch specials by heart. That afternoon, though, every sound seemed sharpened. Plates clattered too loudly. The kitchen bell made her flinch. The laughter from table 17 sounded like it belonged to another world, one where people were not being hunted by their past before the dinner rush.
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